Ghoul Friend
by the Unrequited Lover
Summary: PostRotJ: Ghoul's a bit of a loner since the Jokerz. But he decides that can be adjusted when he meets Melanie Walker. She's a little dark, a little doll faced, and a little unfortunate: while she may want to go straight, that's his thoughts not exactly..
1. Vanilla Lattes and Waitresses

_Disclaimer: Not mine, et cetera. God, duh! _

_Author's note: I'm generally a Melanie-Ten fangirl, seriously, but then we watched RotJ recently, and I could not get over Ghoul's animated hotness. So. :big smile: Yeah, I go for the scary types. Oh, God. I reckon he shaved his eyebrows off, Jack Fairy-style, since he hasn't got any. I'm basically making a ton of stuff up because I don't think I've seen all the episodes of Batman Beyond yet. I wish. _  
**The way I figure it, this is a match most unlikely, but why should it be? They're both runaways from rich homes (well, she's a runaway now). He turned from a rich, probably well-to-do family to a life of crime, while she turned from a criminal family to a life of crime. Now, Terry-Melanie is cute and all, but probably not very long-term. Dana and Terry makes more sense for his daylife, but is probably not longterm. Max is the only girl who'll last, but he's too juvenile to see it in his younger years. Wait till mid twenties. The point is that I think that they'd get along fairly well, do some thrill rides, but he'll pressure her to go back to her old days. He's a sociopathic sort (mmm, sexy) and let's face this too: underneath the cold exterior, she's sort of gullible and naive and in desperate need to belong, even at this price. She changed for Terry, didn't she?**

It wasn't a very nice restaurant, needless to say.

See, he'd left the family. The money had been nice, definitely—but they'd been pure dead boring. Using Stewart the Second's money, it had been easy to get a few…toys. No big deal. Tell the folks he'd bought some nice clothes, to impress people. They were rich. They liked their eldest son impressing people. They didn't, though, like him in jail very much. He heard the other child, his stuck-up little sister Valerie, had been wailing about what it meant to everyone at school. Mother didn't like him in jail. Dad's business was affected.

So, well, they bailed him out. Easy enough to do. They were rich. They just didn't like him being such a shady character. So they told him to do whatever he wanted—whatever he wanted, as long as he wasn't part of them. They didn't care if it was illegal. It just had better not have gotten back to any of Stewart Carter Winthorp the Second's business associates. Other than that, act as you please.

Looked like shady ran in the family.

But he'd left the family. Didn't have much money now, other than what he ripped and sold. So, you see, it wasn't a very nice restaurant. That was all he could afford.

Ghoul leaned back in his seat, thin form slumping in boredom. His eyebrow (whatever sort of eyebrow he had, anyway—to attain the look of skeleton, he'd shaved his off) twitched in some irritation, and then he sighed. To the outside world, he was just another sullen teenager, come into the restaurant to get out of the rain that was pouring outside, waiting for one of the waitresses to come over. Most of them, middle-aged women with stout middles, the kinds probably raising kids on their own, rather unattractive, grey hairs. Others, college-aged girls, a few years older than Ghoul was, him being 19. Button-ups and jock boyfriends, all of them. They had to wear uniforms and their boyfriends were too cool to hang around the restaurant, but Ghoul could tell. Maybe it was their perfume. Or maybe it was the looks they gave him, scurrying to other tables. The old hens all gave him disapproving glances; if he were _their_ son, he knew he'd be grounded. Luckily, he wasn't. The college girls all looked at him with scowls, too cool, too sophisticated, not belonging to the underworld he did. Some of them gave him curious glances, almost fascination, interest. He lifted his hand up slowly, as though it was very heavy, and slowly dragged his fingers through his wet, yellow-blonde hair, which hung down to about his shoulder blades. Then it dropped heavily onto the tabletop.

Too bad for them. Silly college things, looking to make a little extra money, buy some nice button-ups. Some of them might have been interested, but he wasn't interested in them.

Not his type, you see. And Ghoul really wasn't theirs.

In any case, if they didn't even have the courage to come up and take his order, they weren't worth his attention. He caught a glance of himself in a mirror over by the doorway. He wasn't in full Ghoul-regalia, which consisted of a Scarecrow-esque costume in traditional Halloween colours and skeleton-like makeup, but with the tattoos, which all resembled stitches—though the only visible one was on his right hand, going around the side of his hand, between his thumb and forefinger—and the heavy black eyeliner around his eyes, not to mention, the entirely black outfit, including the trench coat, he looked frightening enough. He chanced a grin. His teeth were bright white and looked like a row of tombstones, without a single space between them.

He began to drum his fingers against the table, turning now to look out of the window. It was the rhythm of a song he'd become recently infatuated with. Heavy, smashing guitar with plenty of distortion, drum machine pounding, and keyboards. The sort of music that had set him free when he was pure dead bored off home, in private school, at around 16. Lead vocalist screaming something about poisoning your parents. Suited him perfectly.

Then another rhythm overlapped his—shoes, probably heeled boots, on the floor. Something came up in the corner of his eye and stopped. A waitress.

"Can I take your order, sir?" she asked. He stopped drumming. There had been nothing sarcastic, nothing wary in her tone of voice. Her voice was obviously soft, so different from his Christopher Walken accent (affected, of course—but the Jokerz cracked up every time they heard it). She seemed…just tired. Ghoul suppressed another grin and turned to face her. Shoulder-length platinum tendrils, one hanging down onto a narrow, pretty nose. Long, thick eyelashes—lots of mascara; forget-me-not eyes, high cheekbones, baby doll complexion. Black lipstick, and then he couldn't stop the grin. He glanced at her, then her outfit. The traditional waitress uniform, boring as ever, could not hide her slender, but voluptuous form. He glanced down at her shoes, black boots, pink straps—unusual, but he liked unusual. And then he noticed her legs, shapely, and the hint of an underskirt from beneath the waitress mini. Black lace. _Très _schway. He looked up at her pretty, tired eyes, and decided to ignore the fact that she'd called him 'sir'.

"Vanilla latte. Hot. It's cold out there." He grinned widely.

She looked at him, and smiled, almost shyly. So maybe she didn't mind tons of eyeliner.

"Yeah," she said, voice still soft. Every word she spoke was a sigh. He didn't mind sighs. "I have to walk back to my apartment in this."

Her apartment? She didn't live with her parents? He didn't make her out to be a college girl—a little too young-looking. Certainly not older than he was.

"You've got an apartment on your own? What do your parents think?" Ghoul asked.

She shrugged her shoulders, writing down his order on a piece of paper. She had long fingernails, dainty hands. Not the hands of a somewhat poor girl.

"They don't approve. But I don't talk to them anymore."

The statement clicked with him.

"Anything else?"

"No, miss…" Ghoul peered at her nametag. "…Melanie. Cute name."

"Thanks," she said, and added, "What's yours?"

It wasn't unfriendly, but it was not a happy, excited, pleased-to-meet-you tone. It was questioning.

He liked questioning girls. He wanted to keep her that way…so he didn't answer.

"When's your shift over?"

"After I get you your latte, and you pay for it." She paused, before walking away. "A few minutes, then."

"Want to sit with me afterwards? See if you can't outlast the rain." He traced a circle on the table top, or rather, a jack-'o-lantern, though only he knew that. Ghoul's tone of voice, too, wasn't too eager. It was fairly casual. Nonchalant.

"Sure," she replied, walking away. Ghoul leaned back in his seat, and dragged his hand through is wet hair again. That he was grinning was unmistakable. He didn't find it likely that the conversation would mean anything. Things like that seldom did. And, besides, being a Joker usually meant not having norms for friends. But Ghoul was nineteen. He liked to talk to other people around his age.

He looked out the window and resumed drumming his fingers…

…A few minutes later found him seated as before, two locks of hair hanging over into his face, eyes cast into shadow, leaning forward in the table. The waitress, Melanie, had brought his vanilla latte, he'd handed her the cash cards, she'd headed off, then returned, sitting in the seat across from him. Here she was. He felt her leg brush up against his as she crossed her legs. After a moment's thought, he crossed his, also. His leg brushed up against hers. She didn't seem to notice either time.

Melanie was staring at the table, elbows on the tabletop, hands clasped. She seemed absorbed in some bitter thought or other, but entirely resigned. He liked it. He leaned forward.

Before he could speak, though, she glanced up at him, and asked, not coolly, not rudely, not unpleasantly, in the same sigh-like tones she'd employed earlier, "Your name?"

"Ghoul," he replied, rotating the tall cup around and around. Nothing in his tone suggested that it was unusual.

"Cool name." Neither did anything in hers. He leaned forward again, focusing on her eyes thoughtfully, with an intensity she probably wouldn't overlook.

"So, you've worked here long, Melanie?" He used her name as often as he could. When you repeat someone's name back to them in conversation, it puts the talk on a higher level of intimacy.

"A while." He wondered if she disagreed. She looked back up at him, meeting his eyes evenly, and then, unashamedly, let her gaze drop over his body. Ghoul watched her eyes, feeling a mixture of casual detachment and subtle interest as he felt them take their time looking over his lanky frame. It wasn't the sort of brief glance that usually happened in these situations. It was a deliberate, slow, take-your-time-until-you're-satisfied sort of look—long and leisurely. She obviously didn't care what he thought of it.

He didn't mind in the least. Fleetingly he thought of how he could never pull that off with her. Or could he? If he did it with the same emotionless interest she did, possibly.

She spoke again. "Is it from the song?"

Ghoul was taken aback, not unpleasantly. His name was, in fact, from a song by one of the gothier artists he listened to. When Stewart Carter Winthorp III had been 16, he'd bought some records, and listened to them, and finally cut the sleeves, hems, and cuffs off one of his best school outfits and snuck out of the house. He'd gone to a nightclub, and that song had been the first he'd heard. He bought the album the next day before heading off to the private school. That song stayed with him for a while.

" 'The Queen of Hearts is dying, blood streaming from her wrists; the Ghoul, mouthing a cackle, holds her gloved hand to his kiss,'" Ghoul quoted, now holding his cup in hand, lifting up as though to make a toast, then drinking, as though he'd already made it. He looked at her discreetly as he drank. She was fumbling through something, probably a purse, that sat in her lap; it was not visible from where he sat. He knew it had been a purse when she pulled up a tube of mascara and then zipped something up, and scooted her body over to the mirror. The way her posture was focused towards the mirror, her body drawn in towards herself, was almost intimate. She lifted her head slightly, inspecting her reflection, lips parted slightly, eyes, usually lidded dreamily, widened as she brushed on a coat. Ghoul watched with a crooked smile.

"It's a good song," she said, after she'd finished and was closing the tube.

"Real schway," he agreed, taking another deep drink, finishing the latte off, then reaching over to drop it in a garbage disposal unit.

"I like the band," she said. He wondered if they were making small talk, but he liked the group too, and he nodded his head again.

"You heard 'The Scarecrow'?" he asked her. It was another of their singles. Melanie nodded a head, then blinked slowly. Her eyelashes swept the air gracefully. They were the perfect length, with a nice curl and a sort of ragged look to them. Not pristine, campus-princess. Ghoul leaned forward, rubbing his hands together as though he were cold.

"Are you still in school?"

She shook her head. "Not me. I dropped out." Then she sighed. He barely noticed; maybe it was because she already sounded as though she were sighing.

"So did I." He glanced out the window briefly. It wasn't raining as heavily…but heavy enough. He looked back at her, a prettier sight than Gotham. "So how old are you?"

"Seventeen," she said, still glancing down, then looking off to the other side, away from the window, up at the bar. Still looking in that direction, she asked, "You?"

He looked in the same direction. It was the clock that she was looking it. "Nineteen."

He was staring at the clock—_11:34—_and so when she stood, he hadn't seen it coming.

"Well, you're done," she said in sigh-like tones. "I'm done. Do you want to walk me home?"

Ghoul looked up at her. A grin, like the permanent ones skeletons have got, spread across his pale face. "Sure," he said, and stood. He didn't touch her, she didn't touch him. She turned and walked out, still in her waitress outfit, and he followed her out into the rain.


	2. Scarecrows and Dolls

_Disclaimer: Not mine, et cetera. Why did I get into_ _the habit of writing disclaimers anyway?_

_Author's note: How do I see Melanie? Not a dumb __blonde, or a sex kitten, or a cold evil witch, or a __little emo baby…but sort of all of them, to some __extent. She's gullible and naïve, yes; but playful. __She hides herself behind a calm, cool exterior, but __she's really, really lonely, and hence? She just __can't get a break. She never attracts men who want a__real, stable relationship, just men who like to hang around __the streets at night and talk about their problems (cough Terry, cough Ghoul too), __which is all great, except she jumps in, and she puts __out a little too quickly because she's desperate to be __loved and belong as soon as possible, falls hard and __fast, and gets hurt. Awwww. Ghoul, on the other __hand, is bored, but looking for stimulation…such as a __pretty girl with some mental issues. I love this __pairing. Why aren't there any other Batman Beyond __fics with Ghoul in them? I mean, you'd think he had hoards of fangirls, what with his gothic good looks and such._

_And by the way, I have not seen King's Ransom, so __screw it._

"So how come I never see you around any of the dance clubs?"

Melanie shot him a glance, one of partial interest half concealed by her heavy eyelids and obscured by her thick eyelashes. Melanie had always been lovely. It was the breeding. Sometimes she wondered whether or not her parents had ever actually loved eachother, and hadn't married one another for the looks—so that when the pair of them married and had children, the resulting offspring would be good-looking. It was undoubtable that her older brother Jack had always been handsome, when he wasn't basking arrogantly in the light of their father's praise, or sulking with greed…but she shook her head once, thick hair, the colour of a platinum blonde's without the peroxide, bouncing back over her shoulders. There was something about how he talked, this 'Ghoul' character, that interested her—false accent, casual and airy, almost mock demanding, though it would appear he really didn't care what her response was, or as though it didn't occur to him that he should care. From that quick glance, she glimpsed his hair, slightly longer than hers, falling over his face, but the front pieces were too long to smudge his heavy makeup. Her parents wouldn't have approved. Probably poor, living on the streets, mostly; parents not around much, or gone. He looked as though he were on his own. She averted her eyes in one sharp swivel of her eyeballs, blue irises focusing on the wet sidewalk in front of her. She was alone, too.

"Don't know anyone," was her sighlike response. She wasn't sure where she'd gotten a soft voice from. It wasn't as though she were quiet, though she tended to be at times. Her voice was just soft. A coo, a sigh, usually fairly low.

"You new?" She felt his eyes flicker over her face, but she didn't meet his with her own. She liked that he only spoke in short sentences—leaving out the verb when it wasn't necessary, but not speaking brusquely. It was informal and almost intimate—like he wanted to include her immediately. She got a cozy feeling of déja-vu from their conversation—as though she'd had it before with someone, though certainly not him. He seemed new, fresh, and altogether exotic.

"I keep to myself," she replied after moment, trying to come up with a reason. Why didn't she know anyone? She couldn't actually think of a reason for it, and she was somewhat startled to discover that she had never thought about it before.

"You didn't tonight," he remarked, and this time the eyes on her face didn't let up. She could tell from the corner of her eye that he was watching and turned her face in the opposite direction, as though she were looking off to the side.

"No. But then, don't you keep to yourself?" It was a fairly bold statement, which Melanie had no qualms whatsoever about making. She turned to look at him, thick curls wet against her soft skin. Their eyes met, and his thin lips slowly spread into a wide grin.

"Not tonight," he said, and then, slowly, reached his hand out, and smoothed the wet strands of her hair back behind her ear. His fingers touched her skin only briefly, never lingering a moment longer than was necessary to secure her hair behind her ear, and then his hand dropped. It seemed very natural, very un-sleazy, and it seemed so different from the usual attitudes of the young men like him she'd met in the past that she smiled back at him, then dropped her gaze to the puddles in front of him. They continued to walk like that for a little while, and then she said, "We're close to my apartment."

"It's up here?"

"We're just about there," she said by way of answering, and they continued on. Melanie focused on the steady pounding of raindrops, falling on her face, making her blink more quickly than usual, keeping her head down. She glanced over at him, shaking her head to free it of excess water. He wasn't looking at her, but he wasn't looking at the ground, either—he was looking straight ahead. His eyes seemed to be impervious to water, though his hair certainly wasn't. It looked even longer and darker, a goldenrod colour, water dripping from the ends of the strands, making them look spiked. His hair stuck to his high cheekbones and to the black lapel of his jacket.

"So you like the Screaming Crows?"

Her voice was soft, light with interest, but low and husky in its own way, as always.

"Yeah." Melanie liked that he didn't look back at her immediately—that would have seemed desperate. And she liked the way he said the word—it didn't sound like "yeah", the way anyone else would have said it. After a few steps, he spoke again, just as Melanie thought he would: "Do you?"

"Yeah." It sounded different when she said it—different from him. It was interesting, that they were both the same word. You'd have to speak English fluently to tell, listening to their conversation. "What's your favourite song?"

She wasn't hiding her interest. She never did, never felt she should conceal it. She didn't want men to chase her—she might turn them away.

Still watching him, Melanie saw Ghoul's lips turn up into a smile, though he didn't glance back at her before answering. "The Scarecrow. Yours?"

He looked back at her, and their eyes met a second time—she realized he was wearing white contact lenses, disguising the true colour of his irises, leaving only his black pupils. It looked eerie. It looked schway. She smiled and looked down at the ground.

"'The Porcelain Doll,'" Melanie said, in her low, soft tone of voice.

"You look like one."

His accent made it sound unprofessional and un-chivalrous and, again, un-sleazy. It was as though nothing got through to him, like nothing was important or even unimportant. Without thinking first or blushing afterwards, Melanie took a step closer to him, her shoulder up against his arm, for she was fairly petite and he was at least 5'9''.

She felt his muscles tense slightly beneath the thick, drenched fabric of his trench coat, then relax, not to a relaxed position, but to the same casual position she assumed he'd had before. She allowed her head to tilt slightly to the side, some wet strands of hair slipping onto his jacket, though of course he couldn't feel it through the heavy material.

"Thanks." She considered shutting her eyes and taking his arm, letting him lead her; just before she did it she realized that she couldn't. She was having him walk her home; she had to have her eyes open. There wasn't anything else she could think of saying, although it had suddenly occurred to her that he, too, looked like a Scarecrow. Not the one in the song, of course, who wore elbow gloves and Victorian-aged clothes. But there was an indefinable Scarecrow _something_ about him that caught Melanie's eye, brought her attention to him. Did he manage to scare the crows? Who were the crows? Not Melanie, that was sure. She was intrigued. Far from scared.

Then, though, there was the matter of the porcelain doll. He'd said she looked like _one_, not that she suited the song or something. It was a relief, for while he was not like the Scarecrow, Melanie didn't want to think she could be like the Porcelain Doll—cracked head, glass eye rolling on the floor, the result of someone loving one far too much. Obsessive love kills girls like you, Melanie, she thought to herself silently. She shivered impulsively, a spasmodic little shake she couldn't control, accompanied by a chill running right down her spine and the feeling that her heart was hollow in her chest.

A hand touched her face.

"You all right?"

Melanie turned her face up. Her eyes met his. Yes, she could definitely see the contact lenses. He didn't seem too terribly concerned or worried, not in a frantic way, but with a frown. She hadn't seen him frown before then. It worked for him. "Is your apartment coming up soon? You shouldn't stay out in the rain."

Melanie stared back at him. "The contacts work for you," she said, looking at his eyes, then dropping her head down. It leaned very slightly on his shoulder. She was audacious.

She didn't care. "It's sort of schway," she said, low voice.

"Thanks." He seemed to sound as though that statement of hers pleased him, but not too much. He just took it favourably. Melanie moved her head slightly, and sighed. Her eyelids fluttered, but she kept them open. The rain was still falling as heavily as ever and they walked just as steadily through it, which was to say, rather languidly. Even though walking through the rain was unpleasant, it seemed to make one's movements sluggish rather than brisk. The rhythm of walking was soothing. Melanie didn't want to do any thinking, but her mind couldn't help but disobey her wishes.

On the outside, she was passive, compliant. Inside she was in turmoil. Melanie's first impulse with anyone she felt an automatic interest in was to start a relationship, that moment, that minute. If it was a true connection, everything would make sense. It had with Terry…everything with Terry had made sense. And then her parents had pushed her and she'd lost him. But now her parents weren't around.

Still…Melanie liked to argue to herself that most men she met she never even gave a chance. But what about the men she did give a chance to? That was something else entirely…even Melanie knew how quickly she gave in, how much she wanted people to like her from the moment she met them. She'd learned a little, but it was still hard.

She turned her eyes up, looking at Ghoul's face. She could not fathom what she wanted out of this…aquaintance. Did it count as a relationship? She doubted it. Her eyes slid across his face, quietly, imagining the feel of his skin against her fingers, trying to figure out what she wanted. What did she want?

Her apartment was coming up, she saw out of the corner of her eye. Did she want him to call the next day? Did she want to kiss him on the doorstep? No, she decided; she didn't want that. The thought pushed itself into her mind: would he call the next day if she didn't kiss him?

There it was, wasn't it? The reason why Melanie Walker wants to kiss everybody, she thought bitterly. She just wants to be loved. It was ridiculous. She felt annoyed with herself, and stopped before her door.

"This is it. Thank you," she said, in the same soft, low tone. He wouldn't know the turmoil she'd just been in, not at all.

Melanie's hand slid into her pocket, searching for her keys. Cold metal hit her wet fingertips and she pulled them out. She fumbled, fingers slightly numb, to find the right key on the bunch before placing it into the slot, then realized he hadn't responded. Melanie raked her fingers through her thick blonde hair, then turned her forget-me-not eyes back at him.

He stood there, seemingly nonchalant, as he'd been in the diner. For a moment, struggling with her own sense of ridiculousless, she had forgotten exactly who the man was and what he looked like; all she'd remembered was that he was a man who was walking her home. Seeing him again she remembered what was attractive about him. A strange hypnotic quality, a sense that he was a steady foundation, someone who knew himself, his place in the world.

What that place might be, it never occurred to her. The hand holding the keys went slightly limp.

"See you later, I hope, Melanie?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders back slightly, probably with the cold. This was absurd, she realized. It was pouring outside and she had no idea how far away he lived.

She sighed and glanced down, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. "Do you…?" She sighed again as he frowned slightly, not hearing her through the rain and taking a step or two forward. "Do I what?"

Informal, unchivalrous, unsleazy. Melanie took a few steps down the stairs and her eyelashes flickered upwards so that she looked at him. Her face was a little wet; the mascara barely ran. It looked like smudged eyeshadow, though Ghoul saw that, not she.

"Do you want to come in for a while? It's still raining pretty bad."

Ghoul's pale lips curved up crookedly. "Sure."

A shot of something, warm like alcohol sometimes was, went through her like a flash. His voice, the faked accent—the way he said 'sure'.

"All right. Can I get you something to drink? Tea, maybe?" She turned away and dashed up to the door, quickly choosing the key—the others went to different rooms in her house, to diaries, to the cash register at the diner—and placing it into the slot. The door opened automatically, as most doors did these days, except for the ones with manual keys.

She heard Ghoul walk up the steps behind her, so lightly that it was difficult to believe he'd walked all this time through the rain with her. And then, he spoke—accent and all.

"Hot. It's cold out here."

Melanie smiled and stepped into her apartment. "Sure."


	3. Chai Tea and Brown Sugar

_Disclaimer: Not mine, etc._

_Author's note: I don't know that the format of the story will be Ghoul's POV, then Melanie's, in a pattern. It'll probably be mostly his, he's easier for me to write. For astrology buffs out there, I play him to be an Aquarius and her to be a Libra._

Sure, he'd known she was going to ask "Do you want to come inside?" or something similar. It had been plainly obvious. She'd just pulled out her keys and everything. It sounded a little like he was pressuring her to finish the question for her, so asking what she'd said gave her a chance to organize her thoughts. Ghoul had a fairly good grasp of people, he understood this much. And when asking her questions—finishing them with Melanie showed her he saw her as a person, not some girl. Not a toy.

Of course, he did have to wonder what an invitation inside her apartment meant. Obviously refuge from the rain. The circumstances of the refuge, who knew?

As he stepped into the apartment after her, he heard the door shut behind him and then he felt a hand on his arm, and so looked down.

Her mascara was smudged slightly. It made it look like she was wearing a little more eyeshadow than most girls did, at least at that diner. Not as much as he wore, but enough.

"D'you wanna take off your jacket? You could hang it up over the heater. Maybe it'll dry by the time the rain's let up."

Another grin twisted his features. "Probably not, but you're right; I don't want to be wearing it much longer." He reached to begin unbuttoning it, and Melanie walked a few feet away, turning to point to a space behind him, a few feet from the door.

"That's the heater. Just hang up on the wall there with the other coat."

"'Kay." She turned then, disappearing into the next room. He finished unbuttoning. Once again, the rain made a wonderful excuse. Other than that, was there any necessary reason for him to take off his trenchcoat?

Aside from it being somewhat formal to wear a coat in someone's house. Did that seem too formal? Too informal? Too standoffish, most likely. Wearing an outercoat in someone's house prevented any sort of intimacy, in conversation…or otherwise. Ghoul decided not to risk anything by asking her, and besides, it was fairly drenched. He slid it off his shoulders and turned around, hanging it up on a coatrack, which stood over a heating vent in the floor. Then he turned around and surveyed her apartment.

It was pretty big, and pretty nice—his own was about two rooms, a small bathroom with a shower, and a combination of everything else. Nothing in it suggested the modern age he lived in, aside from the fact that the refrigerator was, miraculously, still working. Nothing, except, perhaps, the hi-tech toys and wonderful computer he had propped up on a countertop. Other than that, there was very little to be proud of, though the place didn't smell (he bathed, he did laundry, he cleaned up once a week, it wasn't bad for a 19 year old), didn't have rats, didn't have cockroaches, and didn't need to be condemned. Melanie's place was different. There was the living room, with a small bathroom, probably like his own, off on the side; then the room Melanie'd gone into, which had no door separating it from the living room; just a doorway. Ghoul walked over towards it, glancing in. It was the kitchen; a refrigerator, an oven, a countertop, some cupboards. It wasn't much. There was a room off to the side, a door separating it. Ghoul paused then and raised one nonexistent eyebrow. It must have been the bedroom.

Well, of course—she wanted to change her wet clothes. He figured. Ghoul put an arm up, above his head, and leaned heavily against the doorway, glancing down at nonexistent dirt in his fingernails on the other hand. Wet strands of hair fell down onto his shoulders, soaking an already slightly-wet black long-sleeved shirt, which had several strips of artistically torn black cotton sewn across the chest, from the hem—which hit mid-stomach—to the collar, which was low enough to expose his collarbone.

The door opened. Ghoul's turned up towards her. She wore a long-sleeved sheer black shirt over a fitted light blue tank, and a knee-length black knit skirt. Her boots were the same as before. She was smoothing the skirt down when she emerged, then looked up and saw him. "Did you hang your jacket up?"

He nodded once, then, as she moved across the kitchen to the opposite side, turned so that his back was flush against the wall, legs crossed, right arm hanging down, other arm propped up against his waist. It all came naturally to him; no pose he took was ever actually planned out. They had been, once; but that had been years ago. He had his role memorized now; it no longer seemed like an act. And he did it better.

"What sort of tea've you got?" he asked her, as she was opening the cupboards and peering into them.

"Ugh—green tea, which is Sarah's, some chai, some peppermint, and some Earl Grey, also Sarah's," she said, taking out an exotically-decorated box with the word "caffeinated" blaring on it. Ghoul mentally noted the mention of this 'Sarah' figure as she put a teabag into one of two large china cups. Obviously a room-mate, who helped pay for the rent, explaining why a waitress lived in rather nice surroundings, though far from ideal—possibly Sarah was a sister? Melanie glanced back at him, pushing wet tendrils off of her face.

"You like any of those?"

"Let me check." Languidly he crossed the room, with a sort of walk one usually saw on a model—light, wide steps, hand still on his hip, shoulders seeming to sway slightly as he walked. The box in Melanie's hand had the word "chai" on it in bold letters. "What's chai?" he asked her, pointing to it. She handed it to him.

"It's a traditional Indian tea," she said, in a rather listless tone of voice, but by no means impolite. "It's made with milk, and I use brown sugar."

Ghoul opened the box. The scent was not unpleasant. "Chai, then." She reached for the box and he handed it to her, then moved over, leaning with his back against the countertop, elbows both resting on it, torso stretched out. She put another teabag in the other cup, then took out a bowl of what was probably brown sugar and filled the teapot up with tap water, which she set on the stovetop. He watched the dainty position of her hand as she turned the stovetop on, bent back at the wrist slightly like an elegant young girl from another age. He supposed her littlest finger would be bent out when she drank from a traditional teacup. But he liked it—it didn't seem like an innocent gesture on her. It seemed a little like an asp ready to strike—poised, hand quivering just slightly. Then she glanced up at him and smiled, and he smiled back. The smile came easy. It was as slippery as honey—almost something to beware of. She approached him, then leaned against the countertop herself—the high tabletop resting against her spin, mid-back. She sighed softly to herself, and pulled her fingers through her hair. Her shoulders looked tense. Stress? What did a waitress have to be stressed about?

"Maybe three minutes, then the water boils—then we let the hot water sit for about four, then it's done, though still a little hot. Usually the milk cools it down."

Ghoul nodded, then, before he really realized he was doing it, though completely unsurprised by his own actions, he took her shoulders and lightly pulled her towards him, as though he was going to hold her back to his chest. She tensed suddenly, then as he stopped and began to massage her shoulders, she relaxed. And then relaxed further, tilting her head to the side with a soft sigh and lifting a handle to pull her now-damp hair off of her neck. Ghoul had never been sure (or interested) about where he'd learned this; he supposed he'd always been good at it. He liked doing it, though—and it only worked if you did it well. That was probably part of why he was good at it. It was like therapy, but without words; it was a way to achieve intimacy without making a girl think she was being used, as it was usually a welcome gesture. Some women didn't like being touched; Melanie didn't seem to be one of them. After a while of rubbing her shoulders, her muscles relaxed, and he moved on to her lower back, and then, with a pause before he did so, the small of her back, gently; his hands on her stomach, mostly, his thumbs making slow, deliberate circles in her skin. This last one he had to be careful with; it could be misinterpreted as an attempt to arouse, and as Ghoul saw it, relaxation and arousal were two different things. He would have used a different tactic if he wished to elicit sexual provocation. As it was, Melanie did not seem to confuse his gesture, or if she did, she would have ended up seducing him, not the other way around, for it would have to have been very subtle, and she seemed extremely relaxed when the teapot began to whistle unexpectedly.

Melanie started, then moved quickly over to the stove and turned the heat off, picking up a heavy towel and lifting the kettle with it, pouring an amount of water into each up, and setting the pot down again. She crossed the room again, this time heading towards the refrigerator, where she set a magnetic timer and then turned around, leaning back against the refrigerator, both hands against its door palms down. Each just watched the other across the room, each in some pose or other. Ghoul hadn't thought about it before then, but Melanie Walker posed just as often as he did, and looked extremely attractive doing so. Her head was bent slightly, an almost demure manner; her full lips were unsmiling, but not pouting or frowning. She looked extremely serious. Ghoul leaned back further, crossing his legs at the ankles, one elbow resting against the countertop, other with his thumb through a belt loop on his black jeans. Melanie was looking at him, and then her gaze dropped, looking him over once again. It was only the second time that night it had happened, but Ghoul felt as though he had now gotten used to it, and felt now as though he were posing specially for it. Enjoying it, in fact. Then she crossed across the kitchen to him, the timer now saying _2:34_. Ghoul didn't have the time to speak before she put out her hand, hesitantly at first, then decidedly placing it on his bare waist. His muscles tensed at the unexpected and very deliberate physical contact; not a single finger stroking him or a flirty brush of her knuckles, but her palm, and she slid her hand up his shirt midway and stopped, suddenly.

"What's this?" she asked, frowning slightly. Ghoul stared at her face, but she wasn't looking at him. He glanced down, and it suddenly struck him that there had been no intended flirtation in the gesture; she was asking about the false stitches.

"That. I'm inked." He reached down and lifted the shirt slightly; it didn't go around completely evenly, making jagged, steep diagonal jumps in several places. She traced the black marks with her fingertip, a curious sensation on his stomach, almost in awe, and then pulled her hand back. He let go of his shirt, then put his right hand out to her. Around the back from near his wrist, then looping around between thumb and forefinger was another one. Her eyes widened slightly and she looked vaguely interested, and so with his left hand he pushed the sleeve up further to reveal, beneath his elbow, another.

"There's one on each leg," he added, once she'd been done looking.

"Schway ink job," Melanie said, looking up at him. She seemed almost…impressed by this new piece of information. He supposed she hadn't looked at his hand closely before then. "I'd like to get one, but my parents never would have let me, and I don't have the money right now."

She gazed off in the direction of the bedroom door, not really looking at it, not taking any information in, and he wondered briefly what she was thinking, then looking in the direction of the door. "Sarah and you share a bedroom?"

"Yeah. Two small beds. She's not here now, though—she's visiting family," Melanie said, twisting a strand of hair around and around her finger. "She usually works at the restaurant." Glancing up at him, she added, "She's 18."

"17, right, you said you were?"

"18 shortly," she said, turning back to the refrigerator and walking towards it. He occupied his eyes with the swinging of her skirt as she did. "My birthday is later this month."

"How late?"

"Mid, I suppose."

He thought for a moment, turning so that he faced the cupboards and propping his elbows up against the countertop, pretending that he didn't feel her eyes on his exposed waistline. "Libra?"

"That's right," she said, just as the timer went off; she opened the refrigerator door and took out a milk carton. The light from the fridge was fairly bright in the dimly lit space, and for a moment Ghoul had to turn his eyes away. His was the same way; the computer screen was too. Melanie turned back, taking a pair of spoons off the counter. With one she removed the teabags and with the other she spooned sugar into each, then poured milk until the cup was more nearly full. She stirred one of them, then lifted it with both hands and held it out to him.

He stepped closer towards her and took it, taking a drink. It didn't taste like he expected tea to taste, but he liked it fairly well at any rate. He looked back at her, and watched her as she stirred the other cup, then dropped both spoons into the sink with a loud sound before she lifted the milk carton and shook it. It was empty. She left it and lifted her own tea.

"We've just spent nearly seven minutes out here," she said, after taking a drink. She closed her eyes when she drank. He liked that for some reason—it seemed so unusual at first, but sort of comfortable. "And I don't think anything we've said has been an interest."

He took a drink, but found he couldn't bring himself to do more than blink. He watched her the entire time the cup was at his lips. "You've discovered my body art and I've learned we're astrologically compatible. I'm interested."

Her eyes met his this time as she drank, at first, anyway; she shut them after a moment. "What are you?"

"Aquarius."

She nodded her head solemnly, then took another drink, and turned to walk out of the room. He figured this was an opportunity to follow.

The back of the loveseat faced them, and she headed to what was the left side, so he moved towards the right, getting there more quickly, just in time to watch her drag one end of the coffee table towards where she intended to sit so that the table was now diagonal to the loveseat, then place her cup down on it. Then, very carefully, she sat on one end, before lifting her legs and spinning so the she was seated entirely on the couch. She brought up her legs and hugged them, and Ghoul climbed lightly onto the other side, sitting across from her, his legs more spread, left arm resting on the back of the couch, other holding his teacup. She seemed very silent. The only sound he could hear was the heavy raindrops.

Melanie heard them also, for she looked up and stared at a black window, streaked with rain. "What do you intend to do," she said slowly, "if the rain doesn't let up?"

He shrugged. "Get my trench coat wet again."

She looked at him seriously. "I told you Sarah wasn't coming back. You could use her bed."

"I could walk home."

"…or the couch, if you wanted." She stretched her legs out a little. They brushed against his, but lightly.

"Wouldn't want to intrude."

"You're not. I invited you in, remember?"

Ghoul took another drink, watching her as he did so. She leaned over and lifted her own cup, taking a drink of it. She probably didn't know he had finished taking a drink before looking up, still holding the cup.

"I hope it lets up. If it rains all night, I know I'll never sleep."

Ghoul was silent for a moment. If it rained all night, she'd most likely pressure him to stay, which wouldn't be hard—he wouldn't mind staying. It was the awkward nature of not knowing her intentions—if she even had any—that bothered him. It was almost as if their roles had been switched, and he was the young girl speaking to a stranger. So when she said that if it rained all night, she wouldn't sleep, did she mean that if it rained all night, he'd stay over, and--? No, of course not, he thought to himself hastily. "The sound?"

"Keeps me up every time. I hate the monotony of it. I always end up putting on music, with headphones at the very least, and then I never sleep."

She didn't sound like she was making it up. "I usually don't sleep at night."

"Why not?"

"Stay up all night, clubbing and whatnot. Don't get up until a few hours past noon."

"Don't you have a job?"

That silenced him for a moment. It wouldn't do to tell a waitress he hacked. "It's an online job," he said after struggling with words. "Took me a while to decide how to put it."

"Web page designer?"

"Something like that."

Melanie nodded her head again, watching him, and he could tell she was no expert on the subject. Then she looked away and took another drink, so he took another himself. Chai tea. He'd have to buy some. And some brown sugar…He didn't own any.

"I used to do a lot of work with electronics," she said quietly after a moment. Then she shook her head as though to clear it and took another, long drink. She must have drained it because she put it back on the coffee table and pushed the cup away, then reached out and slid the table away with the toe of her boot.

Ghoul finished his own off and set it down on the coffee table, too.

"I still do. It's the only thing I think I understand."

"Besides Screaming Crows lyrics?"

"Besides those." Now he was grinning, and he moved a bit until he was seated normally, legs crossed. "I think the rain is lessening."

There was a pause as Melanie listened. "I think so too," she said, "but you still shouldn't go out just now."

He stretched his arms above his head, then put both hands on the back of his head comfortably. "What should I do just now?"

Melanie scooted towards him, bringing her legs back up onto the couch and hugging them. She stopped just shy of him, but he could nonetheless feel the heat her body gave off. "What do you want to do?"

He felt distinctly that they were testing each other, trying to see what the other was after. A witty response came to him effortlessly. "Whatever you want me to."

"I want you to stay until it stops raining."

"And until then?"

"Until then…" She trailed off and paused. "Let's play a game. I ask you a question, and you tell me three answers, two of them lies. I try and guess if it's true or not. If I guess which one is true, I get to ask another question. If not, you do, and no yes or no questions."

"Did you make it up?"

"Sarah did, but the yes or no rule is mine. Yes, no, and maybe are boring to choose from." Melanie leaned back, propping herself up, adjusting her position, and he leaned back himself, without uncrossing his legs. "Let's see…" she said thoughtfully. "What sort of girls are your type?"

Ghoul grinned. Melanie Walker was fun to talk with. "Waitresses wearing button-ups, older women, or porcelain dolls."

She wrinkled her nose and laughed. "Porcelain dolls."

He swept his arm out in a mock-bow. She went on.

"What's your real name?"

He wrinkled his nose, though for real. He detested his name. "Frederick Jennings, Stewart Carter Winthorp III, or Laurence Tess."

"You look more like a Laurence."

"Sorry, Mel. Why'd you stop talking to your parents?"

Melanie seemed taken aback by this, but answered without hesitating. "They died, I ran away, or they're in prison."

"You ran away."

"You guessed it."

"Why'd you run away?"

"They abused me, they were assassins, or I didn't like their lifestyle."

"You didn't like their lifestyle?" Ghoul watched her, lucky that he hadn't had eyebrows to knit into a frown. He couldn't understand running away for that reason. But she made a gesture of assent. He decided not to ask what their lifestyle was.

"What's your kind of guy?"

She smiled. "Men in drag, jocks, or men who have inked stitches."

"Men in drag."  
She laughed. It was a delightful sound. "Hardly. And you, what's your kind of guy?"

He grinned widely. "Men in drag, rich boys, or Jokerz." He hadn't meant to say Jokerz, actually; it had just come out.

"Men in drag." He laughed and decided the answer was Jokerz, surprisingly enough.

"No. What makes me sexy?"

Melanie's face flushed a bit briefly, then she glanced down at his body and turned her face away, chewing her lip. He worried for a flash that it hadn't been great to say, then she said, "Your makeup, your stitches, or your half-shirts."

He was thrown. "None of those can be lies."

"You're better at guessing truths than I am," and she flashed a smile briefly.

"Why did you come and take my order tonight?"

Melanie paused and thought first before she answered that.

"I'm a waitress and that's what I'm paid for, I wanted to take you home, or I was hoping you'd want to take me home."

Ghoul laughed again. "You're a waitress."

Melanie's lips curved up into a smug smile. "You're wrong," she said slowly. "Now here's my question: what do you think about me if that was the wrong answer?"

"You're a total and complete slut and I wish I weren't here" is what he said, but he began laughing while he said it, and so did she, and she must have known he was joking. "All of your answers were lies, and you're really an assasin's assistant, which is why you're keeping me here, or you're more like the porcelain doll than I originally thought."

The laughter all ceased and Melanie stared at him, truly looking like a porcelain doll with beautiful blue eyes the colour of the wings on certain butterflies wide open, lips parted. Then, after a moment, she said in a choked voice, "You've discovered my secret. Now I must keep you here by force."

Before Ghoul had the chance to say anything, Melanie Walker had leaped on him, and—somehow, it happened all too quickly, pinned him painfully beneath her to the floor, the wet curly tendrils of her hair slipping onto his face.

Breathing ragged, he found moving completely useless and watched her. She was incredibly lovely, but incredibly strange, also. What was this story of her parents, why did she know how to tackle someone with a skill that would have impressed even Dee Dee?

"You're quite the waitress, Melanie," he said, and she let him go, stumbling back on the floor and falling to a sitting position as he stood and straightened his shirt. Glancing outside, he said, "The rain is barely a drizzle. I think I'll head out now."

"I'll see you sometime, Ghoul?"

He paused in leaving, aware of her position on the floor. It was, he realized, the first time she'd called him Ghoul. "Yeah, sure you'll see me," he said, somewhat encouragingly.

"I love that accent" was what she surprised him with. "It sounds so unclassy and so very above being sleazy."

He turned back to look at her with a wide smile on his pale lips. She was getting to her feet. "You have a phone, Melanie?"

"Yes, it's in my bag," she said, smoothing her hair back and looking at him.

"Write down your number for me, and I'll call you when I wake up tomorrow. Even if you're at work, I'll leave a message."

Melanie walked over towards the coat rack, lifting up her bag's flap and producing a piece of note paper and a pencil, and she hurriedly scribbled something, then proffered it to him. He took it and put it into a pocket on his jeans, then pulled on his trenchcoat, not buckling it just then. Ghoul saw her reflection in the window, standing not far from him, as he turned and opened the door. He stepped out onto the doorstep, about to let the door swing shut and then rebuckle his coat, when the door's movement was halted. He turned back, slightly taken aback. Melanie stood in the doorway, then stepped down and closed the door behind her.

Wordlessly, she put her hands on his neck, slipping them around and behind it, and pulled him towards her. He more tripped than was actually pulled, but at any rate, her closeness silenced him and their lips touched. The moment that happened, he felt her arms go all the way about his neck and she pressed her body closely to his. He felt his arms go about her waist and his mouth, now slightly parted, settle into a rhythm with her own. It was languid, like their walk had been, and then slowly began to pick up speed. One of her hands slid down his shoulder onto his chest and then around his waist, stroking his lower back, reaching up the back of his shirt, his trench coat still unbuttoned, concealing her embrace from the night surrounding them. His hands pressed the small of her back, and her hips met against his, inducing a pleasurable physical response from him he hadn't planned on. Her lips drew back for a moment with a sigh-like gasp, seeming surprised at the reaction she'd aroused; then, other on her hip, one of his hands took her face and pulled it back. Their tongues touched. With a moan, Melanie entangled a hand in his hair, one of her knees making a sudden involuntary movement, as though it would buckle soon, or as though to wrap her legs around his waist. His hand at her hip stroked her, and both of her arms wrapped themselves around his neck. Wordlessly he dropped both hands to her hips and lifted her up. They stumbled for a second, frozen in time, mouths fixed together, before her knees against his waist got high enough for her skirt to fall back and she wrapped her legs around his waist, still beneath the long coat. They fell together against the door, the sudden crash forcing her hips up and even closer to him. Ghoul hadn't done this for a while, he realized, as her hips rocked slightly, and he felt a suddenly need to pull her much closer, grinding into her very urgently, his body literally shaking with the effort he exerted to not buck his hips against her. He traced her lower lip with his tongue, then slowly pressed his mouth to hers, their lips parting together, her head tilting very slightly, her hands working a steady rhythm against his shoulders, her legs wrapped around him moving deliberately to the same tempo…and then suddenly she fell back, almost jumping to the ground, opening the door and dashing inside before shutting it. Ghoul stumbled back slightly, almost losing his balance.

"I'll phone you tomorrow," he called, hoping she heard, wanting to let her know he had intended to call no matter what she'd done to part with him.

There was a pause, then he heard, muffled behind the door, her voice answer, "I'll be waiting."

He smiled to himself, and smoothed his hair back, before turning and leaving. He wouldn't keep her waiting long.


End file.
